Читать книгу Afterworlds: The Book of Doom - Barry Hutchison - Страница 9

AC OPENED HIS eyes and instinctively grabbed for his stomach, where he expected the gunshot wound to be. He had felt the impact of the bullet hitting him. The brief but overwhelming agony as it had torn up his insides.

The last thing he remembered before the world went dark was the Monk’s voice, soft in his ear: “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll stick your body in the cupboard.”

And now...

And now...

Nothing. There was no pain. No blood. He hadn’t yet sat up, but he could tell he wasn’t in his bedroom, and he wasn’t in the cupboard, either. He was... somewhere else, lying on his back with something soft and fluffy below him.

“It’s awake,” said a gruff voice.

“He’s awake, Michael, please,” said another. It sounded friendlier than the first, but with the sort of upper-class lilt that Zac had never been keen on.

The smiling face of a youngish-looking man leaned over him. “Why, hello there,” the face said. “You must be Zac.”

Zac tried to leap to his feet, but the ground was squishy, like plumped-up pillows, and it took him longer than he would have liked. He stared, first at his surroundings – bright blue sky, fluffy white ground, with an imposing gate standing off to one side – and then at the two men he had heard talking.

They looked similar, and yet different, like twins whose lives had taken them down very different paths.

The one who’d spoken to him – the smiling one – was still smiling. He had long blond hair, hanging in curls down to his shoulders, and eyes that sparkled a brilliant shade of electric blue. He wore a long white... Zac hesitated to use the word dress, but he couldn’t think of a more appropriate one. It was plain in design, and reached all the way down to the floor. The sleeves looked to be a little on the long side, with gaping cuffs that hung several centimetres from the man’s wrists.

The other man – Michael, was it? – was facially very similar. Same blue eyes, same blond hair, but there the likeness ended.

Instead of a gown, Michael was dressed like a Roman soldier. He wore a tunic of red leather, decorated with golden trim. On top of this was a breastplate, also the colour of gold. It wasn’t real gold, Zac guessed, because real gold would make useless armour. It would be steel, painted to look like gold. Unless the wearer had no intention of actually using it in battle, of course.

A sword hung in its scabbard at Michael’s side. The first man appeared to carry no weapon, although he could’ve probably hidden a bazooka up those sleeves if he’d wanted to.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” he said. “My name is Gabriel. It’s a pleasure to—”

“What’s going on? Where’s the Monk? Where am I?”

“The Monk is on Earth,” said Gabriel. “You, on the other hand, are not.”

Zac’s gaze went between the two men. “What? What do you mean I’m not on Earth? What are you talking about?”

“I thought you said it was smart,” Michael grunted. “Doesn’t seem so smart to me.”

“He is smart. He’s just a little... jet-lagged,” said Gabriel, not taking his eye off Zac, and not lowering that smile. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it, Zac? Take a moment. Look around, and then tell me where you are.”

For a long time, Zac kept watching Gabriel. The man’s voice, like his smile, was as insincere as a politician on the campaign trail. Despite Michael’s sword and demeanour, something about Gabriel made Zac suspect he was the one to watch out for.

“Go on,” Gabriel urged. “Look. See.”

Zac shifted his eyes to the left. The swirling mist that covered the ground stretched out in all directions, extending far beyond the limits of his vision. There were no hills, no buildings, just an endless plane of wispy white, and a dome of bright blue sky overhead.

Then there was the gate. It was, Zac realised, actually two gates, fastened together in the middle. They stood fifteen metres high, an elaborate tangle of silver and gold. There was no fence, just the gates themselves, standing proud and alone.

And a small desk. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there it was, right at the foot of one of the gateposts. It was fashioned from dark oak, with faded gold-leaf gilding decorating the carved legs.

A rectangle of cardboard had been propped up on the desktop. On it, someone had written:

GONE TO LUNCH

BACK IN 20 MINS

“Well?” asked Gabriel, seamlessly shifting his smile from friendly to encouraging. “Any ideas?”

“I’m in a coma,” Zac said. “That’s the only explanation.”

Michael made a sound like the growl of a wild animal. “This is a waste of time.”

Gabriel’s smile faltered, just briefly. “No, you’re not in a coma, Zac. Would you like to try again?”

“Not really,” Zac said, with a shrug. “Because the only other explanation is that I’m dead, and this is Heaven.”

“Aha!” began Gabriel.

“And I don’t believe in Heaven.”

“Oh.” Gabriel’s smile fell away completely, but rallied well and came back wider than ever. “Well, believe in it or not, that’s exactly where you are. Or on the outskirts, at least.”

“The outskirts?”

“Yes. Heaven itself is beyond the gates. This –” he gestured around them – “is sort of the suburbs. Outer Heaven, if you will.”

“No,” said Zac. “It’s not. That isn’t possible.”

“The Monk tells us you evaded him. Twice,” said Gabriel. “Congratulations. That’s two more than anyone else ever has.”

“His boss,” Zac muttered. “He said his boss wanted to see me.”

“Correct. That would be me,” said Gabriel. Michael gave another growl. “Or rather, us. We have need of your... talents.”

“So you had me killed? Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, phoned or something?”

Gabriel ran a hand through his golden locks. “I suppose, when you put it like that, it does sound a touch drastic.”

Zac shook his head. “No, this is all nonsense. I’m dreaming. This can’t be real.”

“I assure you it is real, Zac,” Gabriel insisted. “I’m afraid you have to face facts, my boy. You are dead.”

“You killed me,” said Zac quietly. “You had me killed.” He took a sudden step towards Gabriel, his hands balling into fists. Gabriel didn’t flinch.

There was a sound like silk tearing. A sudden pressure across Zac’s throat stopped him moving any further. The blade of the sword felt uncomfortably warm against his skin.

“Make another move and I slice,” Michael warned.

“What difference does it make if I’m already dead?”

“Oh, there are many worse things than death,” Gabriel said, still smiling. “I can think of at least a hundred off the top of my head.” His smile widened and his blue eyes seemed to darken. “Would you care to pick a number?”

He waited a moment, until he was sure his point had been understood, before gesturing to Michael to step back. The man in the golden armour hesitated, then removed the blade from Zac’s throat and slid it back into its sheath.

“And the whole fate-worse-than-death issue is precisely why we wanted to talk to you, Zac,” Gabriel continued. “You see, what with all your exploits – stealing and whatnot – I’m afraid you’ve booked yourself a place in Hell.”

Zac rubbed his throat. He could still feel the heat where the sword had touched his skin. “Hell?”

“Yes. You know, fire and brimstone; demons poking spikes into places you’d really rather they didn’t; etcetera, etcetera. It’s one of the Four Suggestions, see? ‘Thou Probably Shouldn’t Steal’.”

“Four Suggestions? What are you talking about?”

“The Four Suggestions,” Gabriel said again, as if that explained everything. When he saw it didn’t, he continued: “That God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai.”

“You mean the Ten Commandments?”

“Ah, of course, I forgot. You’re a human,” said Gabriel, giving himself a tap on the forehead. “That was an error in translation. Much of the Bible’s spot-on, of course, but sometimes the authors took a few liberties, or just missed the meaning completely. God doesn’t give out commandments. What would be the point in that? Ordering people around all the time? No, it’s not His style. He’s quite laid-back, really.”

“But He does make suggestions,” Michael added. “And if you don’t follow them, you’ll burn for ever in the fires of Hell.”

“Doesn’t sound very laid-back,” said Zac.

“I said He was quite laid-back,” Gabriel replied. “I didn’t say He was a pushover.”

“If I’m going to Hell, how come I’m here?”

“We decided to intervene,” Gabriel told him. “We snatched you away before Hell could claim you. We wanted to offer you a chance to—”

A smaller gate, built into the frame of the larger one, swung open. A man in a grey robe, with matching grey hair and beard, strolled through, whistling below his breath. He had a newspaper under one arm and carried a takeaway coffee cup.

The man walked towards the desk, then stopped when he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, erm, hello,” he said. “I just popped out for a quick bite to eat. Wasn’t gone long.” He looked from Gabriel to Michael. “Nothing’s happened, has it?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, Peter,” said Gabriel, turning the full force of his smile on the newcomer. “Be a good chap and give us another five minutes, would you?”

The man in grey looked like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Well, I suppose I could find some paperwork to be getting on with,” he said, playing it cool. “Filing an’ that.”

“Wonderful. That would be splendid,” said Gabriel.

Peter backtracked towards the gate he’d come through. “Right you are, then. I’ll just go and eat some... I mean file some, um...”

Michael growled and fixed Peter with a furious glare. Peter’s face reddened and his brow became shiny with sweat. “I’ll go file some... some... sandwiches,” he blurted, then he bit his lip.

“Very good, Peter,” said Gabriel. “Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you,” said Peter, bowing ever so slightly. “Peace be with you, Michael.”

Michael growled again. Peter gave a final bow, darted through the gate, and let it close behind him. Zac couldn’t see the man through the gaps in the metalwork, even though common sense said he should be able to.

“So, that was Saint Peter?” he asked.

Gabriel gave an approving nod. “For a non-believer, you know a lot.”

“I’m an atheist, not an idiot,” Zac said. “And you’re Gabriel and Michael, the archangels, right? So where are your wings?”

With a sound like a flag flapping in a hurricane, a pair of wings unfolded suddenly from Michael’s back.

“Satisfied?” asked Gabriel.

Zac blinked. He felt he should’ve had some sort of snappy and sarcastic comeback, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of one. He just nodded instead, and Michael’s wings tucked back in out of sight.

“As I was saying,” continued Gabriel. “Your decision to ignore the Third Suggestion means you are – alas – doomed to an eternity of pain and suffering in the fires of Hell.”

“Unfortunate,” said Michael.

“Most unfortunate,” Gabriel agreed. “However, we may be able to, let us say, pull some strings.”

“And why would you do that?” Zac asked.

“Because we have need of your unique talents, Zac Corgan, and I believe we may be of mutual benefit to one another. If you were to scratch our backs, then we would gladly scratch yours.” Gabriel folded his arms and rocked on his heels, his smirk wider than ever. “So, shall I arrange for someone from down below to come up and collect you? Or would you care to hear what we have to say?”